


Y is for Yarn

by OtakuElf



Series: YADAA (Yet Another Dragon Age Alphabet) [25]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, ball of yarn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 17:09:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7942426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtakuElf/pseuds/OtakuElf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What does one do with a slobbery, disgusting ball of yarn that your mabari has just given you?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Y is for Yarn

**Author's Note:**

> I do so love Wynne. And Alistair. And Dragon Age.

The wool could have come from just about anywhere in Thedas. Sheep are creatures that can adapt to almost any landscape, eating thorns and bits and pieces of plant life that horses would disdain. The fiber was, in point of fact, Fereldan, and had been spun into yarn by the unmarried elder sister of a large farming family that was renowned for sturdy weaving. Since the remote farm had cats in the manner of many areas having rats and mice, it can only be imagined how the ball of spun wool ended up under a dense bit of brush to be discovered by the wandering brindled mabari following the Hero of Ferelden. 

Wool does not smell splendid when wet, and this was still slimy from having been mumbled in the mabari's mouth. A tangled but still compact ball; even dry it looked slimy. The grey-brown was not an attractive color - marred with the mud and dirt and Maker only knew what else it had collected in its travels. The standard exclamations of disgust were rendered by the band. They then forgot its existence completely.

Theron Meherial, Dalish and practical, was not much given to practical jokes out among the shemlen, or so they’d thought until weeks later, Zevran Arainai, handsome failed assassin, found the ball of foul-smelling yarn in his bedroll. Theron suggested that the dog had decided to share the malodorous lump after sniffing the Antivan’s leather boots. Zevran took the opportunity to slide the sphere into Alistair’s “traditional Fereldan lamb and pea stew”. That did nothing for the ball of yarn, and made the much maligned stew even more inedible. 

Alistair stared at the rounded lump, leaking lamb and pea stew, lying in a rapidly forming puddle of mud. Alistair had a sense of humor, which warred at times with his sense of loyalty and rightness. He disliked Morrigan intensely, and it would be satisfying to gift the stinking, matted mass to the witch. If only it were possible to do so without being turned into a frog, or fracturing the alliance that Theron had so carefully crafted among the disparate group. 

“I could never think of anything really clever to do with it anyway,” the tall Grey Warden murmured as he poked at the item with a singed stick. 

“Alistair?” a cool voice from behind startled the former templar. “What are you doing?” A beautiful older woman, Wynne always sounded like any one of his Chantry teachers. That was unnerving.

“That old ball of yarn that Abelas brought Theron. Someone put it in the pot for dinner,” Alistair growled.

Was that a “thank the Maker” Alistair heard from under Wynne’s breath? He gifted the mage with a disgruntled look. “Oh, now Alistair,” Wynne went on cheerfully, “Don’t be like that. I’m just guessing that we’ll be eating bread and cheese tonight instead, won’t we?”

“Looks like it,” Alistair agreed, still morosely poking at the yarn.

Wynne was given to snorts. Sometimes they were disdainful. Now the short, breathy sound seemed to be a cut-off laugh. “I’ll just take that out of your way, shall I? Remove the temptation, hmmm?” She grabbed up the wet, stinking yarnball with no sign of distaste. “Why don’t you get supper ready,” she said before striding blythely off to her tent.

It was early morning and Leliana was feeling uncharacteristically unhappy with the birdsong that usually delighted her. On the positive side, birdsong was lovely, and it meant no darkspawn nearby. Unfortunately, she’d hoped to sleep in this morning, as Theron had declared a day encamped to rest after their Brecillian Forest adventures with the Dalish in the past week. The birds were loud. Cheerful. Demanding that Leliana get up and face the day.

The Healer, Wynne, was the only other party member awake. Well, other than the stone golem, Shale, who was standing watch across the cleared space that was their camp. Shale never slept. Or ate. Technically speaking, the Orzammarian golem was not alive. Her job was to stand watch, as she could not perform so many of the tasks required when camping. Wynne could not cook, but even so was better at providing food than Alistair, The grey-haired woman knew how to brew tea, but otherwise her contributions to meals were cold lumps of hard cheese, preserved meats, and stale bread. 

Perhaps Leliana should volunteer to assist the healer in preparing breakfast. Catching up her pack, she joined her friend at the fire. “What are you cooking, Wynne?” Her startled “Oh!” brought a smile to the older woman’s face.

Squatting by the fire, the mage had several buckets of water, and was swishing some sort of cloth about in one that was gray with soap suds. Leliana asked, “Is that cold water, Wynne? Why do you not use the hot,” and she gestured to the kettle of water boiling happily over the fire.

“Good morning, Leliana! Not hot. Hot water is bad for wool. Cold would be bad for my hands. This is somewhere in between. I am cleaning that ball of yarn that Abelas brought Theron a month ago.” Wynne reached in to pull the sopping mass from the tepid water. Deftly she wrung the water from it, taking care not to stretch the fiber, then dropped it into the clear water of the next bucket. Stretching her cramped muscles, she stood and hoisted the bucket of dirty water and carried it off to dispose of at the jakes Alistair had dug the day before.

Leliana shrugged, then went about frying cured meat, and heating wild-grain porridge - Theron had made it the day before - for breaking their fast. “What will you do with it? The yarn?” she asked when Wynne returned with her bucket filled with fresh water. She warmed the bucket just a bit with some of the water from the kettle. The bard watched as the mage slivered pieces of soap into the bucket in which the yarn was still soaking.

Or rinsing, or whatever Wynne was doing to it. Wynne, lost in thought, hummed.  
…

The ruins had been difficult to maneuver through, and she’d surprised herself by asking “Aren’t you chilly, Sten?”

The gray-skinned giant, clad in minimal armor had responded, “Chilly? I don't know this word.”

“It's much warmer where you're from, isn't it? Don't you feel cold?” Wynne was curious, not just because the man was their companion. She’d heard so many horror stories about the Qunari, and this being, this creature, seemed just like any other reasonable being in spite of his way of life. It didn’t mean that she agreed with him though.

Sten answered her indifferently, “I suppose.”

Theron tended to pick up bits of clothing - pieces of detritus - that he found lying about. Wynne thought about what was in their packs. “ I don't imagine we can find a cloak in your size, can we? Hmmm…” she’d said thoughtfully.

Sten’s suspicious look had not gone unnoticed. “What?”

It had been inevitable, the mage supposed. “Nothing. Nothing, don't mind me. Now, I wonder where I could get a skein of good wool yarn…”

Which brought her back to the present time, with her hand stuck in tepid creek water, stirring an increasingly cleaner skein of yarn. Sniffing appreciatively at the rising smell of cooking bacon, she went back to her work, soaping, scrubbing, then rinsing the yarn until it was clean and useable.

It was the drying and blocking of the long strand of wool that caused Wynne the most difficulty. Wool absorbs water. If it absorbs too much, the yarn can stretch out of shape, and doesn’t have the give needed for knitting into clothing. As a natural fiber, wool can mould and rot if it isn’t dried properly and completely. 

The Hero of Ferelden told them that morning that there were people he needed to speak with at Lake Calenhad. Wynne was not necessarily homesick, but while Theron, Zevran, Sten and Morrigan searched the spot where Sten had been knocked unconscious months earlier, the mage could run an errand of her own.

“Alistair?” Wynne smiled up at the close-cropped red-gold hair of the former templar. It was shining in the sunshine.

Alistair, who was digging into his pack, looked up suspiciously. “What?”

“Would you escort me to the Tower? I’d like to speak to Owain. And I don’t expect that Carroll will make that easy unless I have a templar escort, don’t you agree?” Wynne smiled sweetly at the young man. She was always perfectly reasonable with the boy.

Later, “Is that the yarn that spoiled my stew?” Alistair demanded when Wynne offered the hank to the Tranquil quartermaster, Owain.

“Say rather,” Leliana lilted, “that the ‘traditional lamb and pea stew’ spoiled the yarn.”

“It is wet,” noted the tranquil.

“Yes, Owain,” Wynne said, “I would like for you to dry it for me. If it would not be an imposition.”

“No, no imposition,” Owain told her absently as he ran a length of the wool through his fingers, “Lanolin would be helpful too, if applied once it has dried. To soften it and protect it from the rain or snow.”

Wynne nodded, “Yes, that would be lovely, Owain. How long do you think it will take to dry it without stretching?”

Owain looked up, his slightly unfocused gaze on Wynne’s face. “It will not be immediate, Senior Enchanter Wynne. It will take some time to finish this correctly, and without rot or mold.”

“Yes, of course. We may not be able to return soon. Keep it carefully for me, will you?”

“As you say. Yes. Of course, Senior Enchanter Wynne,” Owain walked off examining the skein of wet yarn.

Wynne did not think much of the yarn for some time, and the rest of the party even less so until their next visit to the Kinloch Circle. Theron, who noticed everything, caught sight of Wynne exchanging a packet with Owain, the tranquil. “Supplies?” he asked as they paced through the stone-floored hallway.

“Yarn,” Wynne said matter-of-factly. “Do you remember that nasty ball of yarn that Abelas brought you, oh, months ago.”

“It didn’t dissolve in one of Alistair’s stews? Disappointing. I had hoped he would play some form of prank on Morrigan with it.” Theron’s dry grin invited one from Wynne.

Wynne’s laughter around the Dalish Warden continued to surprise her, though they’d been companions for some time now. Wynne was not much used to laughter in her life. She had gotten used to being a member of Theron’s “clan”, just as she’d been a part of the Circle. They were family, from Morrigan’s angry adolescent barbs and Sten’s sarcastic glower to Alistair’s endearingly shy puns. From Shale’s stolid observation of their absurdities and Leliana’s pertness to Zevran’s sly and humorous attempts at seduction of anything that walked on two legs - well, except the darkspawn, demons, and undead of course. 

“Yes,” she answered him, “Or rather, no. I cleaned it, and gave it to Owain to fix it up a little before I use it. I plan on knitting Sten a scarf out of it.” The saucy look she shot him belied the schoolmarmish tone she gave the words. 

It was pleasant to have made Theron laugh. They had so many troubles. Darkspawn. Demons. The dead. Loghain. Rendon Howe. The Blight. The Dalish man laughed again at the mage’s delight as she opened the package and examined the skein. “Oh, look!” she said, “It’s actually cream colored!”

She earned a third laugh from the Hero of Ferelden at the tall Qunari’s baffled expression when the mage gifted him the finished scarf.

**Author's Note:**

> Finally! The penultimate story in the alphabet! Thing is, the last chapter was one of the first ones written. Go figure.
> 
> Can anyone guess what Z is for?


End file.
